Knots and Sugar Cubes
by goldenstarfc
Summary: Finnick Odair might have been trained in weaponry. But he wasn't trained in killing, and it didn't take him long to realize that the two were far from the same thing. [Originally posted on wattpad and ao3]
1. chapter one - preparations

I let out a groan, rubbing my eyes as the sunlight filters into my bedroom. If I were to be completely honest with you, it's a pretty small room, and I'm pretty sure there's mold growing in the far corner of the ceiling. Not like that matters; everyone at school is convinced that I live in that huge house on the beach that looks almost as nice as the houses in the Victor's Village. Obviously I don't, but they don't know that. They don't need to know it, either.

It takes me a while before I realize what day it is. Reaping day. Now, being from a 'Career District', and being trained in various weapons and survival skills for years, I can reliably inform you that almost no one looks forward to reaping day. Especially since, unlike in the lower districts like 12, I have to get up early. Any person as gorgeous as myself needs beauty sleep, and I hate it when that's interrupted.

At least I get to joke around with my best friend, the one and only person in this entire district that I like. Caspian's probably the only decent kid our age around here, and I think I'd have killed myself already if he wasn't around. He has his fair share of stupid jokes, he shares in the pain of being drop-dead gorgeous, and he's not a total jerk. We do practically everything together, and though we don't really look much alike, people still get us mixed up- that's how close we are. And he actually knows I live in this run-down shack, and that's more than I can say about anyone else- well, aside from my dad, but...

Anyway, even though this isn't exactly a lighthearted event, we've cracked jokes during it since we were twelve. Maybe to deal with the stress, maybe because we're hot and bored, maybe because we just have an uncanny ability to make jokes at inappropriate times. Could be some combination of the three, some other reason entirely, I don't know. But the fact of the matter is, at the reaping, Caspian and I make jokes. A lot. And while it annoys some people, it also eases a lot of the tension and makes some people less nervous, so, if I'm helping people, I guess it can't be that bad. I mean, honestly, so long as you're helping someone, you're not really doing a bad thing, right? Then, I suppose that's not always true. Like, if you're helping to increase someone's popularity by killing them, I guess that would be a situation where that doesn't apply.

Helping someone usually means you're not doing a bad thing, but that's a statement in which you have to use common sense. Perhaps I shouldn't state that aloud, as common sense is less common than it'd seem around here, and I don't want to validate someone's stupidity because they misunderstood my comment due to their lack of- I'm rambling, aren't I? I tend to do that. Although I'm flawless in every way, I have made a habit of rambling. Perhaps because I'm one of two sane people I know. Or perhaps, my near-constant inner monologue has driven me insane and I'm just not yet aware of it.

It is at this moment that I realize I'm still laying in my bed, and have been for the past five or so minutes, and proceed to roll out, hitting my hard wooden floor with a 'thump', which is inevitably succeeded by another groan. I don't know what I was thinking, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have bruises on multiple places on my side. Oh well, not like it'll matter, really. It takes a lot for me to convince myself to get up off the floor, even, but when I remember that I'll have more time to make sure I look nice the less time I spend on the floor, I manage to force myself into a sitting position, and stand from there. I think I might've hit my head a little too hard, as well, but I don't pay any mind to that. I must make my head pretty before I can worry about its well-being.

Before you judge me, I would like to inform you that I'm not nearly as vain, narcissistic, or self obsessed as I may seem, and most things I say should probably be taken with a pinch of salt- or however they saying goes- as not only do I have a tendency to joke around constantly, but I also have a fondness for sarcasm, and I happen to have a certain brand of sarcasm that is nearly impossible to distinguish from the way I speak when I'm not being sarcastic. So, the meaning behind my words can be nearly impossible to discern at times- but don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.

First order of business is to brush my hair, most likely my favorite physical feature on my body, and quite likely the favorite of most District 4 girls. I was blessed with soft hair that shines a nice, reddish color- that is, when it's properly brushed. When I wake up, it sticks up at every angle, riddled with tangles and knots. Which I wouldn't really mind if it didn't take me nearly an hour to make it look up to its usual perfect standards. Sadly, I do have to sit there with brushes and combs and god knows what else- literally knives some days- for anywhere from forty-five minutes to an hour and a half. Today my hair's pretty cooperative, though, and it's on the lower end of the scale when my hair is its shiny and flawless self. After all that brushing and combing, un-knotting and untangling, and smoothing and styling, getting dressed is the easy part. As perfect as I am, I'm not exactly the most wealthy person in District 4, so I don't really have a lot of fancy clothing, but the reaping is something that everyone knows to shop for. I settle for a nice white dress shirt under a light green sweater, with jeans and some nice shoes that used to be my dad's. I look pretty darn nice, if you ask me- though if I was wearing a nice suit, I'd look a whole lot nicer. But that's not something I can be bothered with at the moment. Now, it's time for breakfast.

While my house is, as I've mentioned, practically a shack, it is a nice shack, and I am proud to say that out of all those wretched shacks out there, this one is mine. It's two stories, and while the stairs creak and aren't fun to climb up and down, at least they're there. I may have the only upstairs room, which is quite inconvenient, but on the positive side, people never wake me up at night, and I'd hear any burglars or murderers long before they reached my room. However, that also means my dad can hear me the second I begin walking down to the main floor of the house.

"Morning, kiddo," he calls up the stairs before he can even see me, and I reply with a groan. It seems that with all my getting ready, I still am too tired to speak. And it seems my dad also knows what the past two hours or so have been spent on, as he responds with, "vocal chords still asleep after putting on all that makeup, Sleeping Beauty?" The nickname fits, really. I like my sleep, and we've already come to the conclusion that I'm gorgeous.

"Food," I manage, though the word comes out low and quiet. That's all he's getting. It's too early for talking. Who even does that at what, nine, ten in the morning? And even before breakfast? Not Finnick Odair. But when I approach the kitchen, I am greeted by a pleasant surprise- the aroma of warm bread wafting through the air, filling my nose and warming my entire body. And this is an occasion in which Finnick Odair speaks before breakfast. "How expensive even was this? It smells..." No words can describe the perfection- "Perfect."

My dad just shushes me, which I have learned means 'very expensive', as he hands me a piece. Holding it between my fingers warms my body even more, and I just stare at the bread, hot between my fingers for a moment before slowly taking a bite. As you may have guessed, bread is pretty scarce around here unless you're filthy rich- which, as we've already established, I'm not-, and it's a food that you savor every bite of. And let me tell you, it feels so much better in my mouth than it does on my hands, and it's so hard not to wolf the entire thing down. But, no, I take slow, deliberate bites, letting the flavor fill my mouth, before carefully swallowing, and repeating. Pretty soon, the whole thing is gone, and I take to licking my fingers for crumbs, or flour, any remnants I can find.

As soon as I'm finished with that, I look up to my dad and give him a sincere, "thank you," and he just smiles back at me, as I draw in a deep breath. A tiny voice in the back of my mind says that this might be the last time I eat bread here in District 4, but I push it away. There's no way I'm volunteering. And even if I get reaped, which I won't someone else will volunteer. there's plenty of fully prepared eighteen year olds, and I don't think they'd give up their last chance to go into the games so easily, to some redheaded fourteen year old kid. Nah, they'd fight each other over going in, and no matter who ended up on that train to the Capitol, I wouldn't care, because it wasn't going to be me.


	2. chapter two - the reaping

I hate that they have to take blood samples. Honestly, pricking our fingers is one of the most inconvenient things they do. It doesn't hurt, no, but that's a blemish on my perfect hands that I just can't afford. And it isn't like I have even the smallest chance to prevent it. They should take hair samples, or something else like that instead. Skin samples, take pictures of our ears- because no two people have the same ears-, fingerprints... the list of things they could do without leaving a mark on my otherwise flawless skin is practically endless. But, no, they insist on doing the one thing that screws up my poor finger.

It is then that it occurs to me that I made a really stupid move in wearing a sweater. The reaping days around here are some of the hottest of the year. It's significantly colder than in some of the other districts, due to the ocean breeze, but that's not enough to cool down our day, and I'm already starting to sweat. As soon as I head over to the area for the boys- I swear it's like we're animals getting prepared for the slaughter, which is, in hindsight, exactly what's happening-, I take it off, and I'm pretty sure some of the girls start squealing. That's somewhat pathetic, but I wink at them anyway as I look around for any sight of Caspian.

"Hello, Finnick," a voice sounds in my ear, and I jump, squeaking slightly, before whacking my best friend with my sweater, glaring. Caspian, however, just laughs. "Oh, you should have seen your face. Priceless. And what was that scream? You're such a loser, Finn."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I mutter, and Caspian playfully nudges me with his shoulder. Just as Caspian expects, I perk up sooner rather than later, and pretty soon we're joking and laughing and having a good time like we always do. We don't shut up until Winnow Elphinstone, the escort for our District, hits the microphone a few times. Winnow's in her early or mid twenties, and likely one of the wealthier people in the Capitol- which isn't a surprise, because District 4 is one of the hardest districts to get a job based around. And she always has very... eccentric outfits. Today it seems her scheme is ... purple. She has a very frilly sleeveless purple dress, and on top a white blazer with the weirdest sleeves I've ever seen. She's wearing extremely tall, bright purple platform heels, fingerless white leather gloves, and her skin is a sickly shade of purple. Her nails are too long, probably fake, and painted intricately, and her hair is, well, unique, bright purple and cut oddly, and there's a huge, lime green bow thrown in. Her lips are a matching lime green, as are her eyelashes, and I've never seen so much purple eyeshadow in one place before. "She looks... interesting," I murmur to Caspian, and he gives a slow nod in agreement.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" She shouts in her high-pitched Capitol accent. I almost want to cover my ears, but I don't. "I expect you're all excited for the 65th Hunger Games!" Some people cheer. Most people don't. "To start things off, let's look to our video from the Capitol!" Caspian and I find ourselves whispering and cracking jokes all through the video, and Winnow lets out a laugh as the clip draws to a close. "Alright, you boys look very eager- we'll start with you this year, shall we?" Some girls protest, but Winnow's already headed towards the glass bowl. I didn't notice until afterwards, but I was holding my breath, watching her obnoxiously purple fingernails as they dug through the papers, before drawing the name of the boy about to be teased with death.

I was right when I said it wouldn't be me.

"Caspian Currents!" She calls into the microphone, and my first thought is that Caspian's name sounds terrible in a Capitol accent. Then I'm hit by the fact that she read his name, that he was reaped. And I forget about all the eighteen-year-olds ready to kill, the silence lasting far too long for my liking. "Caspian?" She repeats, and it's too much. He goes to move, and all I'm thinking is that my best friend is about to die.

"I volunteer as tribute!" Someone shouts, and I'm flooded with relief. We're fine. Then something else clicks. The people around me are staring at me with incredulity.

"The hell was that for, Finn?" Caspian questions as if I'm insane as he pushes me towards the aisle.

It wasn't 'someone' who volunteered. It was me.

"Aren't you an adorable little thing?" Winnow asks as I step onto the stage. I swear Caspian's laughing as I swipe my hair out of my face, glaring slightly at her. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen," I mutter. She must think I'm twelve or something, based on the way she's talking to me like I'm three. I realise my sweater is still draped over my arm, so I pull it on. I then notice that the colour 'matches' her lime green, but I pretend I don't.

"And what's your name, sweetheart?" She inquires with a giggle, and it's all I can do to not roll my eyes. She's shoving the microphone into my face.

"Finnick Odair," I answer flatly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Finnick! Now is Caspian your cousin? Friend?" She asks. I don't see why she cares. "Or are you just excited to be in the Games?"

I take a moment before answering, deciding that honesty is the best policy. And that sprucing up the truth is even better. "Well, Casper's my best friend, but I think I've already got what it takes to win the Games, and if I wait any longer, I'll end up beating the crap out of everybody day one. This way they've got a shot to try and beat me, and I've got a challenge." That was likely more bluffing than it was telling the truth, but at least I sounded confident, and I suppose I said something right, as Winnow grins at me.

"Well, well, well, at any rate, Finnick, it's the girls' turn!" She exclaims cheerfully. I know it won't matter who gets drawn; it never does. So when a young girl named Marina Fisher with curly red hair begins to nervously make her way to the stage, it's no surprise when she's interrupted by a strong, confident female voice, volunteering in her place. The girl who joins me on stage is probably eighteen, and she has tan skin, dark hair, and coffee eyes that look at me like I'm a meal. I have a feeling she's in it to win it. "And your name?" Winnow questions.

"Althea Jardine," she answers, pushing some hair behind her ear.

"And here we are, your tributes from District 4!" Winnow finally calls out. Some people clap. Most don't. Althea, still glowering at me, offers her hand for a shake like we're 'supposed' to do, and I take it somewhat nervously, somewhat afraid that she'll try and eat me alive. After a moment, the fat-beyond-reason mayor begins to read the Treaty of Treason, which I tune out like I have since my first year with the other eleven to eighteen year old kids. Caspian and I have joked about this every year. But not this time. Not this time. As he finishes reading it off, the national anthem begins playing, and I realize that the next time I hear it, I'll be in the Capitol, all dressed up in preparation for my death. That's sort of how it works, the Hunger Games. You spend a month preparing for some fancy execution with twenty-three other kids. Except, one doesn't die. They save a person so they can break them, make them wish they were dead. That's what I've heard being a victor's like. I don't really want to know for sure, but now I might have to. I will have to, if I don't die. I don't know which I prefer, if I'm to be completely honest.

But I can see the hunger, the determination in Althea's eyes, and I know which one she'd prefer. I make a mental note to get away from her as early as possible- she looks vicious, like a killer, like she could kill me in a single blow with her bare hands.

And then there's me. Finnick Odair. Small, weak, scared.


	3. chapter three - goodbyes

They lead me into the justice building to let me wait for guests, and I'm pacing back and forth and generally freaking out. It's starting to sink in- I'm going to the Games, I'm _going to die_. Against someone like Althea? Yeah, there's _no way_ I'm winning; I'm literally a limp sack of meat. But my worry is interrupted as my dad walks in.

I suck in a deep breath, before pulling him in for a hug. He returns it, not saying a word. I don't think he'd even know what to say if he tried to talk. "I'm going to be okay," I murmur after a bit. And for a moment, I really believe it myself. My dad nods.

"Yeah, you will," he agrees. We fade back into silence for a while, until the door is opened.

"I love you, Dad," I say, giving him a smile that he returns.

"Love you, too, Finnick."

And I find myself praying he can watch me kill people, watch me _get killed_ and be okay. At least, partially okay. Maybe he can pretend it's not me.

The next person comes in not too long later, and I let out a relieved sigh. Caspian. Just what I need.

"Listen, dork, I'm not getting all sentimental on you just yet, got it?" He begins, and I simply nod. "You're a huge idiot and I hate you, but that's okay; we'll work around it. This time next year, you'll be back here with me. That's an order, okay? It's a promise. You are _going to win_." He's acting all dominant and like he's fine, but I can tell he knows I can hear his voice crack, and I can see unformed tears shimmering in his eyes. "Please just do that, Finn. You're an idiot, but you can win. I know you can."

"I will. I swear," I reply, before offering my arms up so he can hug me. I know he needs it, and it hardly crosses my mind that _I'm_ consoling _him_, not the other way around. Truth be told, it's not even that, really- Casper and I are practically extensions of each other. We're the two pieces that fit together so that everything makes sense. I rely on him, and him on me, and if our places were reversed, I'd need a hug right now, too. "You're an idiot, too," I add teasingly, and I think I can pick up a laugh among the sobs.

They take him out, and I barely manage to get out, "I'm gonna miss you, Cas-" before they slam the door on us. I think that's going to be all I get for visitors, but then some girl walks in. She looks like she's probably twelve or thirteen, and I might've seen her around once or twice, but she's nobody I know.

"I'm sorry," she says after a moment.

I'm not exactly sure how to respond, so I settle for "Thanks." There's a short, somewhat awkward pause before I add, "I am, too."

"I'm Annie," she states after another pause.

"I guess you already know this, but Finnick."

She studies her hands for a moment, before speaking up again. "Did you have a token you were planning to bring into the games?"

Right. That. That is a thing that people do. "Nah, none really," I reply, letting out a small laugh. "Actually, I totally forgot about that."

She smiles slightly. "My mom gave me this necklace when I was little. It's supposed to be good luck," she begins, holding up a necklace. It's simple but pretty, and it sort of demands appreciation in a subtle way. "It worked today for me, so I thought it might work for you in the games. If you wanted it, I mean..." While I may not know this girl, she seems like a sweetheart, and I really do appreciate her caring. I couldn't've said no had I wanted to.

"I'd love it," I reply, flashing her a grin, and she gingerly places it in my hand. "Thank you, Annie."

"You're welcome," she replies, and I don't think there's one thing in the world I'd want more than the smile spreading across her face to be the thing that pops into my mind when I think of District 4. And if it was even possible, she was beaming even wider as I pulled the necklace on over my head.

It wasn't much longer before the Peacekeepers came and escorted her out, and it struck me how very pretty she was, with her dark brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders- but I can't think of that, now, that's not going to matter ever again. It isn't like I'll ever even see her again, or like I even know her. If I'm going to bother thinking about someone, it might as well be someone I know, like Casper or my dad, not some girl. That's it for the visitors, and next thing I know, Althea and I are being escorted out of the Justice Building, and into the car that will take us to the train.

"So..." Althea begins. "Finnick Odair. Fourteen, generally scrawny, pretty boy. You don't honestly think you have a shot at winning, do you?"

"Ah... well, I... did you call me scrawny?"

"And pretty." I give her a look of annoyance. "Now stop avoiding the question, shrimp." Ah, shrimp. One of my very favorite foods. Tender, delicious, and little so you can eat lots of them in a sitting!

"No," I admit. Well, there goes Finnick Odair, exposing his biggest weakness- that I'm a total loser and therefore can't win. Hopefully this works with for me, not against me.

Althea rolls her eyes. "Figures. You know, I could beat you. If I took you to the end."

"Yeah," I reply, "I know."

"I could. Take you, I mean. It'd look better for me; taking care of my little prawn of a district partner. Definitely win me more Capitol favour; maybe more from our district, too."

"What is it with you and comparing me to shrimp?" I cut in. It's an honest question, and one I feel I have every right to ask. I mean, honestly, if you're talking to some girl who could rip your throat out in a heartbeat, and she keeps calling you shrimp, wouldn't you get nervous? Because, no, really, think about it- what if she wants to go all cannibalistic and eat you? Or, or what if it's some term of endearment- I'm pretty sure Caspian's brother has called him shrimp before. And I can assure you, Kai- who may or may not be my mentor, and I really hope he is- has not yet eaten Caspian.

"You're in a car ride on the way to your death and your biggest question is why I'm calling you shrimp," she replies incredulously- not an inquiry, but a statement.

"Yes. It's important!" I insist. Honestly, if I've just explained myself to you, why should I do so again? "Now stop avoiding the question, ah, person-who-is-not-a-shrimp."

Althea snorts before answering. "I've done it for years; referred to kids as shrimp. My brother did it to me."

"I didn't know you have a brother." Wow, way to state the obvious, Finn. How could I have known that- I didn't know she existed until just an hour or so ago!

"I don't."

"But you just said-"

"I don't anymore. He died in the games four years back. I wish he hadn't volunteered; I don't know why he did. He was eighteen, too; I'm hoping I fare a bit better." How could I have known _that_? "It's okay, I mean, it was his fault. He didn't have to volunteer." She lets out a sigh, sweeping her hair from her face as the car comes to a stop. Well, the tension in the air is high, death is on the mind, we're about to leave our district for the first time, and at least one of us is coming back dead and in a box.

"Well, well, well, it seems we're at the station, now, come on, out," Winnow says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. We see the people meant to be our mentors boarding the train- Mags and Kai Currents. Good. I can live with that.

There's a lot more people than I expect hanging about- most of them Capitol camera crews, I think, and on the far-too-slow walk over to the train, I'm winking and waving and blowing kisses to them- the cameras, I mean, not the people. And all I can think is that this is going to be a _long_ trip.


End file.
